Promises Kept
by Obsidian Sins
Summary: In which Walder Frey refuses to allow Robb's army to pass until the Lord of Winterfell weds one of his daughters, Theon makes a better choice, the War of Five Kings has a very different ending, and Westeros trembles before the knowledge that Winter Is Coming. Featuring: Robb, Theon, Arya, Sansa, Jaime, the Tyrells, Renly, the Hound, Gendry, and Aegon, among others.
1. A Question of Ownership

_A/N: For the record, there will be no OCs in this. Everyone mentioned below (and in future chapters) is, in fact, already a part of the ASOIAF universe. Rated T… for now. If ever I go up to M, I will provide ample warning and ensure the mature sections are easily marked/skip-able by those of you who'd wish to avoid them._

_This story is dedicated to Izzylike over on Archive of Our Own, whose Robb/Roslin drabbles really got me thinking. You rock, girl!_

_Also, shout-out to Jo498 on ASOIAF/Westeros boards, who came up with the House Frey motto. GRRM should totally use it and give props to you. Because it is AWESOME._

_I hope you enjoy and please don't forget to review! _

* * *

Robb raises her hand to his lips, bidding her a chaste farewell. Roslin blushes fiercely and dips into a perfect curtsey, offering up a meek, "My lord." Her brown doe eyes dare not look up to meet his own. In the two hours Robb has spent with her, listening to her play the harp with delicate precision and awkwardly attempting to find conversation, Robb thinks that if they wed, it will always be this way. Shy deference, a voice so soft he fears it would easily be smothered by the harsh northern snows.

Later, when he has retired to the familiarity of his tent, Lady Catelyn's expression is hopeful when she asks how the courting went. Robb suppresses a snort, knowing it will earn him a reproachful look from his mother. "She is a true and gentle lady."

_Arya would delight in tormenting her. And Sansa would enjoy the reprieve._

Robb's heart clenches at the thought and he allows himself to sink wearily in his chair, feeling far older than his years. His sisters are captives of the Lannisters. He may never see them again. May never help Arya plan a jape and watch from the high towers of Winterfell as their schemes unfold flawlessly. May never see Sansa's eyes light up like stars at night whenever he favors her with a story of valiant knights and maidens fair.

His mother is still talking of Roslin's loveliness and sweet nature, how the maester has assured her that the girl is fit enough (and ready) to produce healthy heirs. But none of it matters to Robb. He may be a man now and Lord of Winterfell, but at this moment, he feels like little more than a boy of five-and-ten. Furious over his father's unjust imprisonment, fearing for the safety of his sisters, and wanting nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare that has become his life.

* * *

Lord Walder Frey has seven trueborn daughters. Three are married, but Lord Frey has told the Young Wolf that he may pick any of the remaining four as his bride. Lady Catelyn says this is an honor, to be given such a choice. To Robb, it feels more like a trap. One maiden daughter is nearly old enough to be his mother, another too young to consider, especially if the wedding is to take place on the morrow.

Roslin he has already met and courted in the confines of the castle, to avoid her catching a chill as the weather in the Riverlands continues to grow worse. When Robb mentions this to Theon, his best friend scoffs at the thought of such a woman becoming Lady of Winterfell. "If she's balking at the weather now, just wait until she gets a taste of the North. Snow's likely to freeze her cunt shut."

Robb frowns disapprovingly at his friend's coarse words. But inwardly he wonders if the young kraken may have the right of it.

All that remains now is the final daughter - Arwyn. She accepted his request to court amongst his bannermen, in the confines of his command tent. And for that he is grateful. But she is even younger than her sister, just barely four-and-ten, and he imagines their meeting will be just as stilted.

He stands awaiting her carriage, Grey Wind at his side, despite his mother's misgivings. "Are you trying to scare the girl off?" she'd asked. Robb shrugged, not really sure of the answer.

When Arwyn steps out of the wheelhouse, wearing a dainty dress and her hair done up in an elaborate Southron style, Robb resigns himself to the flipping of a coin and a labored marriage. But when she rises from her perfectly executed curtsey, there's an unspoken challenge in her eyes that gives him pause.

Robb offers his arm. "Lady Arwyn."

She strides toward him – almost a swagger really – and seems completely unperturbed by Grey Wind's presence at his side. It gives both the boy and the direwolf pause. "My lord."

Robb dismisses both her escorts and his guards, leaving them alone (save for Grey Wind) in his tent. She ignores the dainty treats his mother had set out for them to enjoy and instead reaches straight for the wine. But that doesn't throw him near so much as her next words.

"You'd do well to pick Roslin. She'll birth your heirs, warm your bed, and keep her mouth shut all the while. As genteel a lady as any lord could hope for."

Robb takes a goblet of wine for himself, staring at Arwyn over the rim. "You don't want the title for yourself?"

"I've no interest in the game of thrones – iron or otherwise."

She stares intently into the nearby fire and Robb is struck by how _different_ she is from Roslin. He'd missed it before, so focused on the elaborate gown and coiffure. But as he studies her now, Robb notes the firm set of her jaw, a barely noticeable scar that runs just under her chin, and the intensity in her green eyes.

"That's… refreshing to hear, my lady," Robb answers, surprising them both with his honesty.

Arwyn's eyes dart up to meet his and her lips quirk in what might be the beginning of a smile. "I aim to please, my lord."

The teasing lilt in her voice puts him more at ease than any practiced courtesy could ever manage and Robb begins to feel the faint traces of hope. A dangerous indulgence. "If not thrones, what does hold your interest, Lady Arwyn?"

She smiles for true and though her beauty is not breathtaking, her eyes are alit with a vim and vigor that Robb cannot help but find himself drawn to. By the end of the afternoon, he knows that she favors hawking and riding, but practices needlework and the high harp as well, for her father would accept no less. She appears genuinely intrigued when Robb speaks of Winterfell and he is all too happy to answer her questions about the Glass Gardens and ancient godswood.

When the topic drifts to family, his mood darkens at the thought of those presently lost to him – Father, Sansa, Arya, even Jon (who belongs to the Night's Watch now). He looks up when she places a hand on his arm and is glad to find no pity in her gaze. Robb attempts a smile and inquires as to her own family. At this Arwyn removes her hand and finishes off the wine in her goblet. She makes no move to answer and Robb is wise enough not to press it.

When the sun begins to set and Lady Catelyn arrives to return the Frey girl to her escorts, Robb and Arwyn are hunched over the war table as he recounts their latest battle. He minces no words, but Arwyn does not appear to mind the bloody details. She hungrily absorbs the strategy of it all, asking questions where most ladies would beg their leave.

Catelyn startles them out of their conversation and Robb assures his mother they'll follow in but a moment. With her departure, he turns to Arwyn, who has one hand buried in Grey Wind's fur. He smiles softly as his direwolf leans into her touch and is so distracted by the sight that he misses the forlorn look upon her face.

"You should choose Shirei for your bride," Arwyn declares, gazing up at him with undeniable certainty.

Robb does not bother to hide his shock. "Your younger sister? She's but _six_!"

"Exactly," Arwyn continues, her features carefully controlled. "Father won't be expecting it. He doesn't have a plan in order for that contingency and you'll be able to whisk her north before he'll have time to devise one."

Robb wants to take her in his arms and shake her, shout at her for telling him to choose another when she's the first woman at the Crossing who hasn't made him regret giving away his own hand, but then thinks over her words. "Plan? What sort of plans has _Lord Walder_ been making?"

Arwyn grimaces, as if she's tasted something bitter. "Why, control of the North, of course. And perhaps beyond."

A cold fury fills the Young Wolf at the thought of such arrogance and machinations. "And how does he plan to accomplish such a feat?"

"You're an honorable man, my lord. Nothing like my father. No doubt you'd respect any woman you took as wife. Honor her. Grow to love her as well, I suspect. And that love would be wielded against you. Marry me or Roslin or Tyta and Walder Frey will own you. Just as he owns us."

Arwyn's lips twitch into a tragic smile and Robb feels a sharp pang resonate within him. He steps forward, wraps his hand around one of hers, and gives a gentle squeeze. "You're not property or livestock. You're a woman. And no man, not even Walder Frey, owns you."

A sound that is part sob and part laugh escapes Arwyn's throat and she returns the light pressure with her fingers. "He does, though, for he knows our fears and weakness. And would not hesitate to use them against us. For me, they are my brothers and sister, the five blessings my lady mother gave me before she passed from this world.

"I cannot speak as to Tyta's or Roslin's, but Shirei is young enough that it doesn't matter. You will wed her and take her away from this cursed castle, keep her hidden in Winterfell, far from the schemes of Walder Frey. In time, she will grow and forget us all. Forget everything but her love and duty to you. And then – then _no one_ will be able to touch her."

Arwyn's voice trembles and cracks towards the end and Grey Wind whines at her side, licking the hand that is joined with his master's. Robb's face is hard as stone, but his blue eyes blaze into hers with his response.

"I am the son of Houses Stark and Tully, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will not be cowed by _Walder Frey_." His hands raise to frame Arwyn's cheeks. "I will wed you, if you will have me. I'll place my cloak around your shoulders beneath a weirwood. And when I vow to protect you from all who would do you harm, I will keep it."

Arwyn does not cry. But she does allow her lips to ghost softly over Robb's. The touch is so fleeting that he is half-convinced he'd imagined it. "Yes, my lord. But who will protect you from me?"

This time, it is Robb who allows his lips to capture Arwyn's. Though not nearly so soft as her stolen kiss had been, he is still careful not to push too far. Coaxing, but not demanding, giving her plenty chance to pull away if she found the action untoward. But she does not.

When they part, breathless, lips swollen, Arwyn buries her face in Robb's neck and his hands wind up her back, offering calm, reassuring strokes. "What say you, my lady?"

There is no answer and for a moment, Robb fears she will refuse. That he will be forced to wed one of her sisters. He permits himself to imagine such a future – burying himself in one Frey, but gasping the name of another – and shivers. "I'll protect you," he entreats her. "I'll protect your brothers and sister too. Arwyn, I _swear_ it."

Silence reigns and Robb holds his breath, awaiting her response. Grey Wind muzzles Arwyn's hip, as if vowing his protection too. Outside the tent come the sounds of footsteps and Robb knows it is Arwyn's escort. They've lingered too long and now the Freys are coming to take her from him. A sense of urgency festers in his belly, but Robb dismisses it. He will not give into panic.

At long last, Arwyn murmurs something unintelligible that is lost in the folds of his cloak, but he feels her nod nonetheless and cannot keep the relieved smile from his lips. They step away from each other just as the tent flap stirs. It will soon open to reveal one of his guards, announcing Lady Arwyn's escorts.

Before it can, Arwyn fixes him with her gaze, a flicker of fear buried in her green eyes. "Be careful, Robb," she whispers, voice so soft it is almost lost in the wind. "My father is a Frey. And _we take our tolls_."

The words of House Frey echo in his mind long after her departure.

* * *

_Part one of I-have-no-clue. How far this goes largely depends on feedback. But, assuming there's positive response, I'm prepared to take it all the way to the end. _

_For anyone who's curious, Arwyn is the daughter of Walder Frey and Annara Farring (his seventh wife who was rumored to be having an affair with Black Walder). _

_I have plans for many other characters to come into play as well. Including Arya, Sansa, Jaime, the Tyrells, Renly, the Hound, Aegon, and Gendry, to name_ a few.

_Now please be so kind as to leave a review! And thank you for reading!_


	2. Insults and Injuries

_A/N: Just wanted to start with a heartfelt thank you to all those who left reviews. You amazing readers are what prompted me to get this up so quickly!_

_Just a heads up, the later part of this chapter includes some sexual material that just might border on mature. Nothing graphic, but if such a thing makes you squeamish, feel free to PM me and I'll send you the edited version._

* * *

The wedding is held with none of the pageantry one might expect from the marriage of a highlord. Even in a pathetically neglected godswood, Robb is confident, resplendent actually, auburn hair ablaze in the dying light, and Theon muses that he appears more king than lord. _Bloody idiot_, he thinks, _choosing to rut into that one the rest of his life when he could have had the other_.

The woman Robb weds isn't completely unfortunate looking, Theon admits, just rather common in comparison to her beautiful sister. His eyes ghost over to Roslin and his lips twist in a grin. Perhaps he should be grateful that Robb's left the pretty one fair game – he could use a distraction and wonders if noble cunt would clench tighter than a whore's.

The septon Lord Frey insisted upon draws the ceremony to a close and Theon rolls his eyes as Arwyn and Robb exchange vows of respect and faithfulness. There's a seriousness to the Young Wolf's features that Theon well recognizes. Robb Stark has made a promise and he'll give his life in the keeping of it.

'_Winter is coming', my ass. They should change their words to 'even our shit is made of honor'._

Theon feels equal parts admiration and pity for his friend. Honor will not win the war for him. But that's a truth that will come hard in the learning for a Stark.

His eyes latch onto Walder Frey and narrow. There's a hungry look to that decrepit weasel, one Theon knows has nothing to do with lust. His hands itch to find purchase on the pommel of his sword, but he knows the action would be beyond foolish. _What is dead may never die, and Walder Frey looks half-dead as it is._

Cheers erupt around him and Theon is pulled from the thought as Robb claims a kiss from Arwyn and their fates are sealed. For better or (more likely) worse, Robb has tied himself to the Freys. As the party makes their way back to the castle, Theon claps his hand on Robb's shoulder in a show of support. He does not offer congratulations or good wishes for a loving and happy marriage, like those who flow around them are gushing.

_Love's got nothing to do with this. Robb only took her to wife so he might win the war_, he thinks. _Let the bastards dress it up as pretty as they please, spew their empty words. I won't lie to him. _

* * *

As tradition dictates, Robb has taken the Lady Frey to dance as Lord Walder escorts his newly wedded daughter about the floor. Theon remains slouched in his seat, guzzling down strongwine, but he is not sulking. Roslin may have rebuffed him to hide within the gaggle of her lordling brothers, but he is most assuredly _not_ sulking. Greyjoys do not sulk anymore than they sow.

His gaze sweeps the great hall (he scoffs at the term, for it is but a fraction of the size of Winterfell's) and notices Lady Catelyn courteously dismissing yet another request to dance. He doesn't much blame her, not in this den of weasels. Robb would be like to have to pull his sword and defend her virtue if she let any of the lechers too close. The thought pulls his attention back to the dance floor, futilely scanning for any possible chance of a good fuck. His eyes catch on Arwyn and narrow at the steely look on her face that borders on dread. Even from a distance, Theon can tell Lord Walder's grip on her is too tight, will leave bruises come morning.

The room is small enough that he is by her side in but six steps. Father and daughter pause at his interruption and Theon sweeps her across the dance floor with a stiff nod and no explanation. Her father out of sight, Arwyn relaxes perceptibly.

"Stranger take him."

Theon smirks at the soft murmur he was clearly not meant to hear. "What's that?"

"Nothing, my lord," she answers, quickly covering. "Insignificant words of a woman who's had too much wine."

"Quite a feat since you haven't touched your goblet all night."

The grin she flashes him is positively impish. "You were seated not far, my lord. I absorbed it by proxy."

Theon sniggers at that, surprised by her boldness and not bothering to deny he's imbibed enough for the both of them. "What was the old craven squawking about?" he presses, not willing to be distracted so easily.

The mirth vanishes instantly, replaced by practiced indifference, but her steps in the dance falter, betraying her emotions. "Merely reminding me of my duties."

Theon can't tell if she lies or speaks the truth; perhaps in this instance they are the same. It matters little. He thinks of the finger-shaped bruises she will bear in the morning and the insult they offer to Robb. They may not share the same blood, but there are other ties binding him to the Starks that are arguably as strong.

"Next time," Theon begins, his tone offhand, but his eyes hard as iron, "instead of letting him berate you like some low-born cunt, _you_ should remind _him_ that you're Lady of Winterfell now. Better than some shit-faced Frey. And if he's stupid enough to forget it, you've got twenty thousand soldiers who'd be happy to teach him his place."

Arwyn's eyes go wide and Theon muses it's a rather comical expression. He contemplates for a moment that he may have gone too far, offended her sensibilities, but then decides he doesn't much care.

Before she can muster a response, cries of "Bed Them!" ring out and the men surround them, clawing at her gown, ripping it with an almost vicious fervor Theon has never witnessed in any of the weddings at Winterfell. Arwyn jerks against their forceful pawing, trying to escape, and failing quite miserably. Theon is disgusted to note that many of the groping hands (lingering too long by even his standards) belong to her half-brothers. Even Roose Bolton (whom always puts Theon on edge, though he cannot discern as to why) is tame by comparison.

Arwyn's eyes are a swirling tempest of rage and terror and lock onto his own with a silent plea. With an exasperated grumble, Theon trudges over to her, shoving her vile relations out of his way, and throws her over his shoulder, easily skating around the men and striding towards the exit.

He catches sight of Robb, buried in a mob of his own, though his (rather unsuccessful) deflections quite clearly stem from embarrassment, not fear. Theon smirks and leaves his friend to the mercy of rat-faced women.

He's halfway to the bedding chamber when Arwyn finally collects herself. "Thank you, Theon."

Her voice wobbles, borders on being overly tender, makes his actions sound _chivalrous_. And that just won't do. He lays one hand on her ass and gives it a firm squeeze, eliciting a startled shriek from his captive.

"Bastard."

"Cunt."

But neither insult is truly caustic and Theon briefly considers that perhaps Robb is not quite so stupid as he thought.

* * *

When Robb is at last shoved in the bedding chamber, he is in naught but his smallclothes. Blue eyes meet green and he is grateful that they appear as nervous as his own. He is also grateful for Grey Wind, who patrols the halls, warding off those who would wait by the door with bawdy japes. An audience would no doubt make this more awkward for the both of them.

His gaze flicks to the bed and back to his fidgeting bride. Robb can still taste the strongwine on his tongue, but his mouth feels rather like cotton and he does his best to swallow the sensation, tries to come up with something to say. But Arwyn beats him to it.

"Have you ever done this before?" she asks, hands clenching the fabric of her torn shift.

"Been married?" he jests, trying to ease the tension.

His wife looks to be smothering a grin. "Lain with a woman."

"No," Robb answers. Theon had offered many a time to pay for his first whore. The temptation had been great, yet Robb's mind would always turn to his lady mother and the wounded look her eyes carried whenever they beheld Jon Snow. But now he almost wishes he had acquiesced to his friend's pressuring. At least then he'd have somewhere to start. "Have you?"

"Lain with a woman? Many times, my lord. But never quite in this manner."

Laughter fills the room, soothing their nerves and reminding Robb why he'd chosen Arwyn over her sister. He feels a swell of daring and moves closer, toying with the laces of her shift. "I could be wrong, but I do think you're overdressed, my lady."

"I think we both are."

Their lips meet for what would be their third time. It starts off hesitant, almost self-conscious, but then Robb's fumbling with her laces brushes his hand against her breast and she gasps into his mouth. He presses the advantage, nips at her bottom lip and then dances over it with his tongue. Arwyn arches into him, her lower belly brushing against his bulge, eliciting a hiss.

She jerks back, lips red and full, eyes like molten wildfire, chest rising and falling rapidly, completely distracting him with its movement. Her pink tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and then in one swift movement, she removes her shift and kicks out of her smallclothes. Robb quickly follows suit and then they are tumbling back on the bed, limbs tangled up in each other, her hands buried in his auburn hair, his sweeping down her breasts and stomach, over hips, buttocks, and thighs and then back again. His movements are erratic, lacking in finesse, but any inhibitions he held have long since fled.

Her tongue fairly tangos with his own and there is such an unfamiliar but delicious wickedness to it that Robb bucks his hips into hers on instinct. Arwyn quivers beneath him and he sends up a silent prayer to the Old Gods that it is from anticipation and not fear.

They break apart, drawing haggard breaths, but Robb does not relent, lips jumping first to her neck and then leaving a scorching trail down her chest and to the subtle curve of her waist. Arwyn moans beneath him, hands tangled in his hair so tightly that pleasure mixes with pain and he isn't quite sure why that feels so very good.

The sensation gives him pause and he seizes the moment to study the girl he's claimed for his own. Breasts that have only just begun to bud, generous hips that curve naturally in his hands, and a recently healed scar that lines the underside of her ribcage. Robb traces the puckered line, brow furrowed.

"How did you get this?"

"What?" Arwyn rasps, struggling to emerge from her daze and into sharp focus.

"The scar," he reiterates, "who gave it to you?"

His voice carries a soft, but dangerous lilt and he waits with little patience as Arwyn untangles her fingers from his hair, allowing her hands to fall awkwardly to the side. She shrugs, feigning insouciance, but Robb is not so easily deceived.

"I'll have that name, my lady."

She flushes under his demanding gaze, appears quite abashed, but does not look away. "It's but a trivial thing, my lord, not worthy of mention."

"I made you a promise," Robb states, as if the matter is already decided. And, in his mind, it is so. He swore to protect her beneath the eyes of the Old Gods; it would be a slight on his honor and that of the Stark name to fail in even the smallest of measurements.

"And your word remains unsullied as I received this mark many moons ago," is her soft, but unyielding response. "Don't worry. The man who gifted me this did not leave without his own."

Robb leans back, regards her with carefully hooded eyes. "Did he…"

He trails off, unsure how best to phrase the question. But apparently those two words botched it up enough, for Arwyn wriggles out from under him, her eyes narrowing and jaw clenched tight. "I'm still a maiden, if that's what concerns you, my lord," she snaps.

_It isn't that at all_, Robb thinks, inwardly bemoaning how things have taken an unexpected and most unwelcome turn. He'd only wanted her confidence and to serve justice to the one who'd brought her pain. But he sees now that she will deny him both and wishes he'd had the sense to bring it up after instead of ruining the moment. Arwyn is turned away from him now, shielding her face with her dark hair. _She doesn't trust me_, he realizes. _But mayhaps she will one day._

"We don't have to- we could just… go to sleep. If you'd prefer-"

"No," she rushes out, far too quickly, and Robb wonders at the reason. "No, my lord," Arwyn continues, gathering herself. "We should finish what we started. It is our duty and… it felt… or I thought it was rather… pleasant," she finishes, mild surprise lacing her revelation.

"It's supposed to feel pleasant," Robb murmurs when she leans forward to initiate another kiss. He gives into the embrace, though it is far more labored than what came before. The fervor has abandoned them and though the touches they share are nice, he finds himself questioning the placement of his hands, the positions of their bodies, desperately trying to recall Theon's crude recounting of his exploits with the northern whores for guidance.

In the end, Robb feels shamed that when he comes inside her, he is unable to bring her with him. Arwyn offers him a smile and an assurance that she enjoyed it every bit as much as he did. In that moment, he is not sure if he loves or hates her for the lie.

Sleep escapes him for some time. Arwyn has donned her shift once more and keeps her back facing him. Her breaths come evenly leaving Robb alone with his thoughts. The blood of her maidenhead is still drying on the sheets when he recalls her earlier words - duty, she called it. A truth to be sure, but Robb is certain now that there was something more…

A rock settles in the pit of his stomach as he thinks back on their coupling – the determined set to her face, the whimpering sounds she assured him were from her pleasure (_stupid fool_, he savagely berates himself), and the fleeting look of relief once the deed was over and her blood slicked the pale white sheets.

Hatred and guilt battle the rising sense of nausea and Robb is suddenly very sure that they were not alone in their marriage bed tonight. Walder Frey had been a silent companion all the while and it was not duty or desire that swayed Arwyn to welcoming Robb into her bed – it was fear.

So Robb does not sleep tonight. He simply lies abed, with face grim and eyes unblinking, wondering if it is possible to rape a woman who cries out yes instead of no.

From the surrounding halls, Grey Wind bays out into the dark of night, a mournful wail that echoes his master's trepidation.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks again for reading! Looking forward to your thoughts!_


	3. Captive Hearts

It'd been a trap – and a well-laid one at that, he'd grant them. _Rather underhanded for a Stark_, he muses. _But then there's no honor to be had in war. No right or wrong side. Just winners and losers._ And this war is one that Jaime Lannister cannot afford to lose. _Though the battle is looking grim._

He'd been out raiding with a small party of only four hundred soldiers when the force of five thousand Stark and Tully bannermen descended. At present, Jaime is knee-deep in bodies of the men he's slain. There's none on this battlefield that can match his prowess and though these men are doubtlessly brave and fighting for a nobler cause than he, they are all nonetheless dead the moment they engage him.

He pulls his sword out of his latest victim and a trail of bile and innards follow the steel's departure. _Killing is the sweetest thing there is_. The Hound's oft-repeated words echo in his mind and Jaime grins, spits blood and sweat in the face of a Stark soldier and then removes the obviously green boy of his head. _Poor dog, he's obviously never been buried cock-deep inside a woman like Cersei_. If he were being honest, Jaime would have to admit that though his twin sister can be considered many things, sweet will never be one of them.

Lannisters will not win this battle, he realizes. So he thinks quickly, catches sight of Robb Stark fighting gallantly in the foray, and begins humming _The Rains of Castamere_, footwork in perfect sync with the melody as he cuts his way toward the young lord. He's nearly within spitting distance when the boy's guards react, moving against him as a unit. Three fall with difficulty, another parries to his side and Jaime follows, moving slower than he'd like, his own wounds weighing him down. And so he does not know Dacey Mormont approaches from behind until the hilt of her sword delivers him into oblivion.

* * *

Jaime's thrown face-first into the dirt, but ignores the pain, forces himself into a sitting position, cocksure grin firmly in place even as he faces his enemies.

"By the time they knew what was happening it had already happened," Robb states as he comes to stand next to his mother, who glares at Jaime with utter disdain.

There's a quip on the edge of his tongue, until Jaime notices a young girl flanking the boy's other side, her fingers curled deep in direwolf fur and dressed rather tellingly in Stark colors.

Jaime throws his head back and laughs. "So there's your price for crossing the Trident. Well-played, boy. And you, my lady," his eyes catch the girl's and Jaime smirks at the recognition and fear buried in their depths. "Congratulations. I regret I was unable to attend the joyous union. It would seem my invitation was lost on the wind."

He banters back and forth with the elder Lady Stark, rather enjoys goading her, especially after that business with Tyrion. But every so often, his eyes flick over to the girl, and is pleased that her attention is riveted on him. _Good_, Jaime thinks, _let her remember. It may make her useful to me in the end_.

"Send his head to his father," shouts the Greyjoy ward. "He cut down ten of our men. You saw him."

"He's more use to us alive than dead," comes the Stark lord's response, but Jaime reads the conflict in his eyes.

_More useful, mayhaps. But also more dangerous, boy._

Lady Catelyn orders him bound and imprisoned and Jaime offers to end this war here and now with single combat. Robb Stark refuses, as he knew he would. The boy would have to be a complete idiot to fight the Kingslayer and hope to win. As he's dragged away, Jaime tosses a wink at the newest Lady Stark. She averts her gaze, jaw tight, fingers keeping a firm hold on the snarling direwolf at her side.

He laughs and wonders how long she'll hold out until she comes to him, how long she'll wrestle with herself before giving into the inevitable. A fortnight? Mayhaps a month? She would come though, of that much Jaime was certain. And when she did… well…

_A wolf cannot contain a lion. Not forever._

* * *

The men around him are cheering, but Robb can't stomach the sound of it. He doesn't begrudge them their victory celebration, knows it's either bawdy songs and exaggerations of battle valor or survivor's guilt and weeping for those forever lost. Fathers. Sons. Richard Karstark is now left with but one heir and the House Hornwood without any. All three dead so that he may live. And thousands more for the sake of his father and sisters.

Robb realizes with a start that his hands are trembling and he quickly excuses himself. He is Lord of Winterfell, commander of the Northern army. He cannot let his men sense his weakness, must never seem to be anything less than perfectly in control. It was his father's burden once, but now it is his, and he will bear it well. As well as any boy of five-and-ten could ever hope. What other choice does he have?

He enters his tent and immediately disrobes, removing the bloodstained cloak and the shirt beneath, and then stops, sensing movement behind him. Grey Wind is out hunting and none other would dare enter his tent without summons. Robb's hand moves to the pommel of his sword and his blade kisses the open air, swinging to a stop in front of the tent flap right before it opens and Arwyn walks in.

Her eyes are wide and focused on the naked metal inches from her face. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not think you'd be back this early."

Robb sheaths the weapon, embarrassed at having drawn it on his own lady wife, and quickly steps back to let her in. "I grew tired of the revelry."

"So soon?"

He opens his mouth, ready to offer the same prepared explanation he'll give to any man who inquires as to his early withdrawal come morning, when he thinks over her first words. "Wait, if you thought I'd still be celebrating, then what are _you_ doing here?"

Even in the dimly lit tent, her flush is easily spotted. And though she appears tense, Arwyn moves further into the room, closer to the bed, and discards her cloak. Beneath it is but a thin shift and, despite his best efforts to the contrary, Robb grows uncomfortable in his breeches. "I thought to be waiting for you, upon your return, my lord."

His throat feels thick and tight at the suggestion in her voice and so he forces out but one word. "Why?"

She appears uncertain by his questioning, but draws confidence around her like armor, standing up tall, though it cannot hide the nerves that edge her eyes. "I've heard that men often enjoy the comfort of a woman after a battle."

Robb thinks back to their first (and last) coupling and his stomach turns sour. "Is that something you heard from Walder Frey?"

"No, that's something I learned from the bards." Her tone is light, almost teasing like, but it does not soothe him and Arwyn quickly adopts his discomfort. "It's been over a week since our wedding, my lord, and you've not sought out my bed since. Was I not… pleasing to you?"

Robb grinds his teeth and thinks of what to say. He could offer her assurances, perhaps chide her for thinking so carnally during a time of war, or even beg off with exhaustion, but none of those would garner him an answer to the question that has haunted him these past several nights.

"Do you offer yourself to me because it's what you want? Or because it's what your father's commanded?"

Arwyn startles at his candor, is speechless for a moment, before fumbling a response. "My father? He has nothing to do with - "

"Arwyn, we will share many things together in our lifetime. Let's not have lies be one of them. Please."

He is practically begging, pleading for truth. She holds strong for a moment and then sinks onto the bed, shoulders hunched and head downcast. "It is as you say. In part."

Robb's stomach drops at the acknowledgment. He sees her distress and knows not what course of action to take. Would a touch from him offer comfort? Or only serve as an unhappy reminder? He hovers by the bed, wholly unsure and feeling awkward as ever. "In part?"

Her eyes dart up, flick over his naked torso, and then land on his face, incredulous. "Do I want you?" she scoffs. "There's not a girl in Westeros who wouldn't want you."

There is no flattery to her remark, simply fact. And though he knows he shouldn't, Robb feels a prickle of satisfaction at her words, and a swell of courage. He joins her on the bed, sits closer than he should, takes her hand in his and squeezes it reassuringly. "Then forget your father. You're a Frey no longer and he cannot harm you now. He's leagues away."

"But his sons are not," she whispers. "My half-brothers, many of them fight here at your side, and they could -"

"I told you, when I make a vow, I mean to keep it. They raise a hand against you, they die." It is not some flowery prose or a lover's promise and he does not intend it as such. Robb Stark is too much like his father in that manner. He cannot (_will not_) spin lies to win favor. Arwyn does not have his heart (_not now, though gods be good, one day_, he hopes). But she has his sword. And mayhaps to her, it is the more valuable of the two.

Her eyes search his own, as if weighing his words. Or his worth. Her hand releases his and her fingers rise to ghost over the angular planes of his face. "Such a man should not exist outside of the songs," she murmurs, not so much to him as to herself. "What chance do you have against monsters like my father?"

"I have whatever chance you give me, my lady."

Her smile is honest, but hard as steel. "You launched a war to save your family. I would do no less for mine." Robb thinks of her five siblings – the only Freys she bears love for. Wendel fosters at Seagard, under the protection of the Mallisters. Colmar is safe in the arms of the Seven, soon to be a sworn Brother of a septry. Elmar will marry Arya and rides North for Winterfell with their brother Waltyr. It is only Shirei who was left behind at Lord Walder's insistence, alone in a den of weasels.

"But we are family now, as well," she continues, surprising him. "So I will tell you what I know, little though there is, if you but promise me that you'll not act until my sister is safe."

The fear in her eyes is palpable and Arwyn worries her bottom lip so viciously between her teeth that he fears it will soon split open and bleed. Robb takes her face in his hands, kisses her chastely to ease the tension wracking her body. He relates to her fear, can taste it for his own, and thinks of Arya and Sansa and how he'd give near anything to have them returned to him. "Aye, my lady. What was it Walder told you?

"My lord, Walder Frey would never deign to tell a woman anything unless it was directly related to how he wants her fucked. Or, in my case, how often."

Robb removes his hands from Arwyn's face and his fingernails dig dark crescent shapes into his palms. "And how often is that?"

"I believe his exact words were, 'you'll let him fuck you 'til your cunt is raw and bleeds again if that's what it takes – and you won't stop until you carry his wolf in your belly.'"

Robb jerks up and away from the bed, his breathing heavy and face mottled with rage. That any man (let alone a father) would dare speak to a woman in such a manner was obscene. That Walder Frey had the temerity to threaten the Lady of Winterfell was unpardonable. Robb struggles to rein in his fury, wants to send riders for the Crossing to fetch Lord Frey so that he might learn the double meaning of House Stark's words.

_Winter will come for you, Walder. _

But he knows he cannot. Not yet. So Robb turns to Arwyn, hauls her up beside him, arms locked in his vice-like grip. "I won't lie to you. I could lose this war and the fate of my lady wife would be… uncertain, at best. But you must know, you _must_ believe that I would never -"

He does not finish the words, does not know how to do so without sounding unconscionably vulgar. But Robb can imagine the fate Lord Walder had made her ready to endure. A husband who would drive into her without compassion, spare no second thought for her cries of pain, or the blood trickling down her legs that such rough invasion would undoubtedly bring. His stomach churns and Robb is not sure if he wants to retch or kill someone. Perhaps both.

"Foolish boy," Arwyn says, though her voice is soft and kind as she pries his hands off her arms, bringing them to rest on her belly. "The pain was merely an unfortunate corollary to be endured. But _your heir_ was his goal."

Her eyes are olive maelstroms that bore into his own, demanding him to understand what is left unsaid. Robb's body goes frigid as he does. If Arwyn were to become heavy with child, he'd send her North. Both for her protection and that of their child. If he were to meet his end on the battlefield, Arwyn would be given control of Winterfell and the North until his son came of age.

And, through her, Walder Frey would reign.

"Gods be good," he breathes, falling back on the bed, stunned. "Do his oaths mean so little to him?"

Arwyn joins him, weary but resolute. "You forget, my lord. The Freys married into the Lannisters first. And father has always favored lions over wolves."

Robb wonders what Lord Walder's plans entail. Holding sway over his wife (and unborn son) should Robb fall in battle? Parleying with the Starks only to turn cloaks when a Lannister alliance proves more useful? Either way, there is only one thing to be done about it. But the knowledge tastes like ash in his mouth.

The smile Arwyn gives him is tinged with bitter understanding, as is the kiss she presses against his cheek. "I fear I've troubled you enough this night, dear husband."

She stands, donning her cloak and waving him off when he offers to escort her to her nearby tent. She is almost to the exit when Robb speaks out at last, unwilling to let her leave without voicing his concern. "I do not wish to be a slayer of your kin, my lady. I do not want to lay that burden upon you. Or have it reside between us."

"My lord, Walder Frey has brought me only pain in this life. There is nothing his ghost could do to me that the man hasn't already. Except, mayhaps, grant me peace."

Arwyn leaves him alone then. Robb wonders exactly what his lady wife has been made to suffer at the hands of his good-father. And if a quick death is more than the man deserves.

* * *

_A/N: Lots of questions posed in this chapter – the answers will be coming to light soon enough. Next up: Eddard Stark's death sends Robb into grief and Sansa into a moment of madness (yep, we're finally heading to King's Landing!). _

_A special thank you to all of you lovely readers kind enough to leave reviews. They bolster my writing inspiration and mean so very much to me!_


	4. Dark Wings, Dark Words

With a special thank you to Hazel-3017, my new beta-reader.

* * *

"I hate you," she whispers.

Joffrey's face hardens, vitriol spews from his mouth, and _Ser_ Meryn's hand crashes against porcelain skin. It all happens in the blink of an eye and when it is done, Sansa Stark kneels amongst the rushes and splotches of red decorate Trant's white, silk glove.

It is the glove, and not the girl, that draws his attention. _Color's wrong_, Sandor thinks. _He struck her with silver steel, not white silk._

He fights to remain in the present, but the ghosts of his past are a constant shadow, hounding him always, and when he slips (even for a moment), they are relentless in their assault, so the memory takes him.

"_I hate you," she whispers. Her voice is laced with fury and her stance utterly fearless. Sandor wants to leap in front of her, shield her from what he knows will come, but he has been abed for over a fortnight now and his body fails him. Gregor raises his mailed fist and smashes it against her nose. Then, suddenly, there is screaming and blood—rivers of it running down the knight's gauntlet, thick and dark and haunting, staining the floorboards beneath. Gregor's laugh cuts through the cacophony as he leaves the girl wailing on the floor and stalks from the room._

_Sandor's screams join his sister's and only when Gregor is surely gone does the maester come running. The old man rushes to the girl's side, carrying her off to reset the nose (but it will not work—the bones are shattered beyond repair—and from that day forward, Sandor will not be the only Clegane to forswear reflections). But this does not silence Sandor, and he continues to howl, full of rage and despair, because Gregor struck her and he was still too weak to prevent it and gods above, why does his face still burn_?

_The servants rush in, desperate to ease him, but their gazes never dare climb higher than his chest and he wishes for them to choke on their useless courtesies. Words are nothing in the face of fire and blood. And they have already consumed him. _

_His bellowing continues until the beams of first light filter in through his window and his sister returns, face covered in bandages, eyes black from bruising. Her gaze greets him without flinching, taking in the newly acquired savage burns as if they had always been there. As if nothing at all has changed. _

_She crawls into bed beside him, hands smoothing down what is left of his scorched and brittle hair. Then she begins to sing. _Gentle Mother, font of mercy, help your children through this fray. Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, let us know a better day.

_His screams finally taper off as her steady voice quells the furious pounding of his heart. She has always kept a fervent faith to the Seven, his sister, has even entertained the idea of committing herself to the Silent Sisters, but never will. She could not abandon her beloved brother in such a manner, not when it'd leave him to face Gregor alone. Sandor is grateful for this decision, for he knows he would resent the gods for taking her from him. And he does not want to hate anyone she so dearly loves._

_He holds his sister tightly as she whispers her plans—they must needs run away. It will only get worse if they remain in the Keep. Sandor knows she is right and so begs her to flee now. She refuses, of course; will not leave without him. They have time, she assures him. They will wait until his strength returns and then they will ride as far as they please—to the Free Cities, mayhaps. She is stubborn, his sister, and tough as Valyrian steel. So he acquiesces and takes comfort in the fact that they'll soon be free of this tower and the monster that dwells in it._

_In the end, it takes him five moons to recover. His sister is dead in three._

He emerges from the past just in time to watch Joffrey stroll out the exit, Aerys and Meryn trailing just behind. Sandor lingers, eying Sansa, who has yet to rise from the floor. And though her posture is slumped (perhaps the first time he has ever seen it so), her eyes still carry a hint of determination that is all too familiar to him. He scowls—refuses to be drowned by ghosts once more—and roughly yanks her to her feet.

"Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants."

"What… What is it he wants?"

"He wants you to smile and smell sweet, even when he brings you pain." _Especially when he brings you pain. _"He wants you to chirp those pretty little words like your Septa taught you. He wants you to love him… and fear him."

His voice is harsher than perhaps it should be, and his fingers dig sharply into her skin. Sandor hopes the words sear deep in her soul, lest she forget. It is a warning she must heed—the same sort of warning he should have given his sister all those years ago. Mayhaps if he had…

Sandor shoves the girl away from him and leaves the room to trudge after his charge. Sansa Stark is nothing but a little bird in a gilded cage and she had best come to terms with that if she's going to live.

He refuses to think of his sister again. He refuses to think that, like her, Sansa may no longer want to.

* * *

"And as soon as you've had your blood, I'll put a son in you. Mother says that shouldn't be long."

Joffrey's words crawl across her skin, and in spite of the stifling heat, Sansa finds herself shivering. The beautiful golden-haired children she once longed for become twisted in her mind's eye—they bear the king's wormy lips and beady gaze, with mouths that spew poison and hands that wrought only suffering. _Arya was right. I am nothing more than a stupid fool_.

She longs for her wild sister and the arguments they had. And Robb, who'd cut down any man who would dare to lay hands on her. She longs for the comforting embrace of Mother's arms. But instead, her betrothed presents her with Father's head, where it sits atop iron spikes.

Sansa gasps and averts her gaze, begging for mercy. She can almost hear Arya's voice in her ear, growling like a she-wolf should. _We're Starks. We don't grovel to the likes of him_. But Arya is likely as dead as their father, thanks to Sansa. And as the bile begins to creep up her throat, Sansa realizes she _should_ look upon what remains of her lord father. She deserves no less.

Blue eyes rise to lock on the (nearly unrecognizable) tarred head, and a strange heat begins to pool in her stomach, one Sansa has never felt before. Joffrey continues to torment her, but Sansa remains silent, staring up at her father as the heat is worked into a raging fire, one that threatens to consume her. Her heart is speeding, thumping so loudly she wonders if the others can hear it, and she feels quite not like herself. That is the only explanation she can offer for her retort to Joffrey's proclamation that he'll gift her with Robb's head as well.

"Or maybe he'll give me yours."

_Ser _Meryn's fist bears a gauntlet this time, and when her lip splits open and blood trickles down her chin, Sansa finds herself bizarrely hoping it will scar. Her heart aches so fiercely that she wonders if she'll ever be well again. She doubts it—her father is dead, her prince is a monster, and she fears that when she returns to Winterfell, it will be as a box of bones. Sansa is broken, her insides shattered into a thousand pieces. The outsides may as well match.

She does not know why, but her eyes seek out the Hound's. His words of warning echo in her mind and her arm aches at the memory. She has not dared meet his gaze since the tourney when he forced her to, but she does so now. _He wants you to love him… and fear him_. One is easy; the other now impossible. Sweet Sansa, her mother's summer child, would heed his advice. She'd remember her courtesies and recite them now, pledging allegiance and professing love, however false.

But the Hound's grey eyes remind her very much of Father's, and unbidden comes the memory of his last moments. She'd shrieked and begged and strove to be by his side, desperate and disbelieving that her beloved prince could be so cruel. But then Janos Slynt had thrown him onto the block and _Ser _Ilyn drew Ice, wielding it against its true master, and the horror of watching her father's head roll across the Great Steps of Baelor, his body still warm and twitching, overcame her.

With that memory, the strange fire boils and swells in her stomach and her gaze hardens, as unforgiving as winter itself. And oddly enough, it is the Hound who looks away first, his eyes glazing over and drifting off, as if he is somewhere else entirely.

"Will you obey now?"

Sansa tears her attention back to Joffrey before she lets it stray to her father. _Winter is coming_, his voice whispers in her mind. But Father was wrong. Winter is not coming. It is already here.

She takes three steps forward and dips into an elegant curtsey. "Your Grace."

Joffrey meets her along the walk, those fat, worm lips smirking down at her in victory. Sansa smiles up at him. She is still smiling when she shoves him off the edge and sends him screaming to the bailey below.

* * *

The raven comes at dawn, with the gleam of first light reflecting a ghostly halo around its obsidian wings. Ser Brynden, the Blackfish, Tully does not need to read the missive. He can already tell from the maester's ashen face that the bird has come on the Stranger's errand. _Dark wings, dark words_, he muses. _Truer words there never were_.

"Who has died?"

He thinks of his brother, Lord Hoster, and can only pray the old goat still has some fight left in him. Edmure is not yet ready to lead the Riverlands, certainly not in its present state of friction. He is more dog than fish—good-natured, eager to please, and poorly suited for swimming upstream. Despite his years, his nephew is near as green as Robb Stark. In some ways, mayhaps more so.

Brynden wonders for not the first time if he's done Edmure a great disservice, deciding to take leave of Riverrun and make his home in the Vale. It had seemed the prudent choice after Robert's Rebellion, with Hoster unrelenting in his desire to wed him off as he had Cat and Lysa.

The very thought of his youngest niece leaves Brynden with a sour taste in his mouth and the urge to spit upon the ground. He can scarcely believe her petulant treatment of Cat in the Eyrie, or how she stubbornly refused to lend aid to her family when they needed her most.

_She's disgraced herself and both houses Tully and Arryn, and deserves the honor of neither name_. Brynden has not wanted to admit her a lost cause, has had a difficult time indeed reconciling the shy, delicate girl he helped raise with the volatile, paranoid woman she has become. But he can deny it no longer. _When this business is over, when the Riverlands are secure once more and Cat has her husband and daughters returned to her, I'll fetch little Robert. We'll foster him in Riverrun or Winterfell, where he can grow under men and women of honor. I shall not let him meet the same ruin as his mother._

But the maester's response brings all his ruminations to a halt. "Eddard Stark, Ser."

Brynden Tully can do naught but stare at the maester as a weighty stone settles in his chest. It is a heaviness he has not felt in decades, since he rode with Barristan Selmy to quash the last of the Blackfyre pretenders. He takes a dragging look about the camp, its inhabitants just beginning to mill around, packing up their tents, preparing the wounded for the short journey to Riverrun. High above, Tully and Stark banners dance together in the wind, proud and strong.

_Cat loved to dance_, he muses. He remembers another Stark man and how the Wild Wolf had spun his niece across Riverrun's Great Hall until her face was flushed and her legs unsteady, clinging to him for support amongst a fit of giggles. She'd wept so sweetly when Brandon Stark died, wearing mourning clothes up until the day she wed his brother.

Brynden takes the missive from the maester. The love she held for Brandon was a child's tenderness. It was not until Eddard took her to wife that Cat learned the depths of a woman's passion. And her pain would match the difference. He thinks of that young girl, sobbing into his arms on the edge of the riverbank, and vows to act as her anchor once more, if that is what she requires. _Family, duty, honor_.

"I shall deliver this one myself. Declarations of war are better heralded by knights than maesters."

"But Ser," the maester replies, brows furrowing, "are we not already at war?"

The Blackfish laughs, but it is a joyless sound, one marked by experiences that were hard in the earning. "This," he says, indicating the camp, "is not war. This is a failed rescue, an escalated conflict mayhaps." He reaches out, flicks the short chain around the maester's neck that belies his young years better than his beard can hide them. "War is when the rivers run more red than blue, when whole castles burn and men think themselves gods. You've not known war, boy. But you will, soon."

"Surely such war cannot be brought by just one man?" argues the maester.

"Obviously the Citadel must not be the beacon of knowledge and hope we are told it is," Brynden coolly rebuffs, "or perhaps you did not deign to study the history of warfare well enough to earn you a link. Maelys Blackfyre, Rhaegar Targaryan, Balon Greyjoy—all solitary men who nearly brought this land to its knees." The Blackfish pauses, clenching the missive in his fist, praying to the Seven that Cat (_dear, sweet Cat who has always been the best of them)_ is strong enough to survive this. "I've fought wars wrought from madness, lust, and greed, all in the name of duty. But this shall be the first I wage for honor." _And for vengeance_.

* * *

_Father is dead_. The words echo through his mind and, for the first time since Uncle Brynden brought the news to him at daybreak, Robb thaws from the numbness. A swell of emotions rage inside of him, clawing at his insides, stealing the very breath from his body and, suddenly, he is bent over, gasping for air as a shroud of sorrow and fury threatens to overpower him. Behind him, Grey Wind whines, feeling his master's pain for his own, and Robb buries a shaky hand into his direwolf's fur, as if through Grey Wind he could draw on the strength of the North itself.

He wants to sob and howl and run a sword through every Lannister man in the dungeons below, wants their blood to stain the land and rivers red, wants to tear into the lions until there is nothing left but mangled flesh and bone and the wolves can run free once more. But there are other words that echo through his mind as well, words that stoke his ire. _The King in the North_.

_I did not ask for that burden. I do not want it, _the boy within him rages. (The boy that has yet to die, the one that still dreams of dueling with Jon in the practice yard, of running through the wolfswood with Bran and Arya, of dancing with Sansa in the Great Hall, of Father's quiet chuckles and Mother's frequent smiles. The boy he fears he shall lose forever to the title of King.)

There is a quiet knock, and the tempest swirling inside of him has Robb hurling his wine-filled chalice at the door in a fit of emotion. When the goblet shatters and wine stains the richly carved wood, Robb instantly regrets his outburst. It is a poor show of thanks for his grandfather's hospitality, and Mother (no doubt it is she standing on the opposite side of the door) will most certainly be displeased.

"Enter," he calls, and is surprised to find Arwyn stepping into his chambers.

She closes the door behind her, surveys the damage, and declares, "Well, that's not very kingly behavior, now is it?"

Robb offers her a smile and thinks he might have laughed if he had any joy left in him. "Are you in need of something, my lady?" he asks with forced courtesy, praying to the Old Gods that she is not here to offer him physical comfort. He is weak enough tonight that he will not refuse.

Arwyn pulls a wineskin from the depths of her cloak. "This was given to me on the eve of our wedding by an interested party. I may even call him friend, if House Frey knew the meaning of the word."

Robb takes the proffered skin and unstops the cork. His face darkens at the rancorous stench that rises from the liquid within. "Poison?"

His wife laughs for true. "Not in the least. It's called rum. A drink favored by sailors, and thrice as strong as any wine. To ease a maiden's pain, he said."

Robb looks away, feels ashamed for what happened between them and how gingerly Arwyn had moved the following day. When he finds the courage to face her once more, she has removed her cloak and sits on the floor by the fire. Unlike so many others this day, her eyes are not brimming with emotions that fester his aggravation. There is no misplaced pity or sorrow or cry for vengeance. Her eyes demand nothing of him. Robb finds that oddly more comforting than any of the empty condolences she could have offered.

He begins to view her differently then. He considers that she is not just another burden to be carried, a young girl he must protect because honor demands he keep his vows. Mayhaps, she is more.

"But I'm glad I saved it," Arwyn continues, and when she bids him join her, Robb finds himself sitting on the floor, with Grey Wind flopping down at their feet. "This seems much more the appropriate occasion."

She passes him the wineskin full of rum and Robb braves a swig. The liquid burns down his throat unlike any wine, throwing him into a coughing fit that leaves him flushed with embarrassment. "_Gods_. Have you tried this? It tastes like piss."

"And you would know what piss tastes like, would you?" She pulls a hearty drink of the liquid and swallows with a muted wince. "But yes, I have tasted its kind before. Five years ago, when my mother died."

Arwyn hands him the skin and he takes another swill. He's prepared for the fire this time and decides it's not quite so terrible as he'd thought. "I'd forgotten you lost her," Robb admits and Arwyn waves it off.

"Most people do. Frey women are of very little consequence," she says with no emotional intonation, as if the matter had been settled long ago and there was no use in fighting against it.

"Then it's fortunate," he counters, "that you're a Frey no longer."

"No. Now I am a queen. Queen in the North." Her face gives away nothing, and Robb suddenly itches for more, to know if mayhaps she, too, shares his misgivings (and resentment).

"You said nothing in the council. Did you agree with your brother?"

"Half-brother," she corrects. "And hardly. Stevron speaks for Father, after all." She pauses for a moment, a gentle smile softening her otherwise harsh features as Grey Wind curls in to be closer to her. "He's decent enough, though, Stevron. As are Olyvar and Perwyn. For Freys."

His head has already begun to feel light, but Robb takes another drag regardless, for the spirits seem to lighten his burden. Arwyn snatches the skin from his hands and drinks as well, dropping her gaze to the flames before she speaks again. "Why'd you have me there, Robb? Seated to your right, no less."

The question makes little sense to him. "Why wouldn't I? You're my lady wife. It is your right."

Arwyn studies him, eyes wide and unblinking, as if he is some great mystery to be unraveled. "Your father must have been a great man. You were very lucky."

There is a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, and then Robb remembers Walder Frey's sneering face, the cruel command he'd delivered to his maiden daughter on the night of her wedding, and he thinks twice. "Yes," he chokes out instead, "I was."

"What was he like?"

Memories flood him and Robb scarcely knows where to begin. His quiet strength, his gentle mercy, his unfailing love? There are no words to encompass all that Father was, and so Robb does not try. Instead, he starts at the beginning, his first memory of being naught but four and cowering in his parents' bed, terrified of the thundering storm. Mother sang sweetly to him, cooing words of comfort, but it was Father's arms, warm and sure and strong, that assured him the world was not crashing down around them.

He talks long into the night, of name-days and praying in the godswood and the look of pride on Father's face when he won his first sword fight. By the time he is through, the fire has ebbed to mere embers and his voice is hoarse from use. There are tears welling in his eyes and Robb wonders if the spirits have made them more difficult to control.

"Don't fight them," Arwyn whispers. "There is no need to."

"I'll not give in to weakness," he argues, though he fears it may be a losing battle.

"That is a man's folly, believing tears are a weakness. They do not have to be so. They can lend you strength, if you will them. Believe me. I've shed enough of them to know."

"A king cannot cry," Robb insists, but his voice wobbles, betraying him and he blinks furiously to keep the traitorous tears at bay.

Arwyn cups his face with her hands, and he is surprised to find tears building in her eyes as well. "Then do not be a king. Tonight, be just a boy, and I shall be just a girl."

And that night, with Grey Wind stretched at his back and Arwyn curled up against his front, Robb feels like the boy again for the first time since his father rode south with his sisters and the King. And the boy takes no shame in allowing his tears to carry him away.

* * *

A/N: First off, my most sincere apologies that this update took so very long! Unfortunately, I lost both my grandmother and my aunt in the same month this fall and, having grown up so close to them both, it really hit me hard. To be honest, I just didn't have it in me to do much of anything aside from cope. That being said, life moves on and I'm finally starting to as well.

Anywho, I should be updating with much more regularity and I hope you will all continue to tune in and leave such inspiring reviews. Your support and encouragement make writing a true treat.

Next up: Theon heads to Pyke, Sansa faces the consequences of her actions, and it's not Catelyn Stark that Robb sends to treat with Renly.


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